


Handle With Care

by jamesraoulsilva



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/pseuds/jamesraoulsilva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You expected to feel it, deep in your heart and reverberating through your bones like his signal did on your computer screens and servers.</p>
<p>But you don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handle With Care

“Hello, James.”

The lines, practised over and over again, roll from your lips. You can't see him very well, he's too far away. Step by step, word for word, you close the distance between him, and you.

You expected your hands to be shaking, your voice to be wavering. You expected to feel it, deep in your heart and reverberating through your bones like his signal did on your computer screens and servers. To feel it, connecting again, the only way the two of you ever could.

But you don't.

You were south and he was north. Like magnets you clicked together and were unseparable, save strong force. And strong force it was. Now you've turned around, and no matter how hard you push, you can't get the pieces to connect again.

When you can see him clearly, you see the jolt of recognition in his eyes, before it disappears. You can almost hear him thinking. Put on your pokerface, it's just a game. Play your cards, play your hand right and...

Yes, then what?

In hindsight, you suppose it was cruel to shoot her. But if he insists on playing a game, one mustn't feel bad about sacrificing a pawn.

He stands there, proud in his suit. Holds up a gun, and a radio. He thinks he did so well.

You're only somewhat miffed that it seemed so easy for him. You've been feeling your years and you supposed he did too.

Then he advances, radio slipped back in his pocket, holding the gun with two hands. You stand there, calmly, arms hanging loosely beside your body. You see no hesitation in his eyes when he takes the last few steps before pressing cold metal under your chin. He meets your eyes.

Abruptly he grabs you by the arm with one hand and spins you around, pushing you forward until your hips and chest are pressed against the rough stone of the statue, in the shadow. He presses against you and replaces his gun against the back of your head. He fumbles in his pockets and pulls out a piece of rope.

You frown. Where had he gotten..?

Ah. The rope he was tied to the chair with, not an hour earlier. You almost forgot he was—is— so resourceful. Something to keep in mind. He might just ruin your carefully invented plans.

Meanwhile, he's tied your hands behind your back. Not too tight, so your bloodflow doesn't get restricted, but not so loose you can worm your way out.

He pulls you back, his hand on your arm, and then pushes your forward, into the middle of the square and into the light again. You squint, and he doesn't take his hand away. If you close your eyes and pretend it's two decades earlier, it almost feels like it used to do.

Then he tells you to sit down, and when you don't comply he pushes you down. Not harshly. You can tell he thinks you are fragile. This side up, handle with care. Don't shake; you might not know what breaks when you do.

Except he's wrong. You're not fragile anymore if everything's already been broken.

He takes a few steps back and searches one of your henchman, whose name you remember and you wish you didn't. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and searches another man for a lighter, all the while keeping his gun pointed at you. He leans on the table, lights a cigarette, and pours himself another Macallan.

And several more.

You feel something and you're not sure what, but it makes you wonder and question yourself and you loathe yourself for it. It's only much, much later that you realise, at that moment, you pitied him.

When the helicopters arrive, and you are apprehended once again by two men, you get decent handcuffs and are put in a special compartment in the largest helicopter. Just before you enter, you see he's riding co-pilot in the other chopper.

A few hours later you arrive at an airport in Hong Kong and at first you don't recognise it. Then comprehension dawns that Kai Tak airport closed in 1998 and you have never laid eyes on this new one, Chek Lap Kok airport. You suppose you're grateful for that.

You're brought to a small jet. He ascends the stairs before you and disappears into the cockpit. There's no cell or anything like it here, so you are placed at a window and surrounded by three men with guns. You shoot them an unnerving smile and look out of the window. As the plane takes off you get an aerial view of Hong Kong and feel bilge rising in your throat. You focus your eyes on the horizon, then the clouds, then the sun.

Apparently you fell asleep and you scold yourself for losing control of the situation. When you land on Heathrow, your legs feel shaky. How long has it been since you set foot on British soil? London, even?

Obviously they're taking you to their _secret_ headquarters, after you made Vauxhall Cross 'strategically vulnerable'. You're blindfolded and you can barely suppress a laugh at their idiocy, when it was _you_ who suggested the place as a back-up location to M. 

You're put in a car and you notice they're taking a confusing route to put you off. No matter, as soon as you enter the headquarters, you smell the characteristic damp, murky odour of the Old Vic Tunnels. 

You're put in a small room where there's a bench, bolted to the floor, on which a jumpsuit lies, waiting for you. Two men, not the same as those on the plane, squeeze themselves in the room with you. They frisk you.

You clench your jaw and stare into nothing, and you let it happen. When it's done, they're obviously uncomfortable ordering you to change. You flash them your teeth—you can't call it a smile—and quickly throw your clothes off. 

You shiver, wearing just your pants. It's still bloody cold in those tunnels. Some things don't change. When you're done, they march you to your cell.

You whistle through your teeth, and get poked in the back with a rifle barrel for it, when you see your new dwelling in person. They damn sure did their best on this. You wonder who designed it and whether they realise they utterly failed at their job, since you managed to hack its systems in advance.

You take place on the seat (once again, bolted to the floor) in the exact middle of the cell. And you wait.

Through the tinted glass you see a vague shape, and your heart jumps, when you realise it's too tall, too broad—it isn't  _her_ .

No, it's  _him_ . If there's someone you don't have time for right now, it's him. On the other hand, up to the moment she decides to honour you with her presence, you suppose you have all the time in the world.

He enters and makes a movement with his hand, as if he's flicking away a fly that keeps buzzing around his head. When nothing happens, he turns his head sharply towards one of the guards and says, “leave us.”

Your heart hammers in your chest and when you tell it to slow down, it doesn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, loves. No, I'm not dead, I'm still alive. Just super busy with university. I was stressed and I just watched a Bond film (The Spy Who Loved Me) and I felt like writing. So, I hope you enjoyed, cheers!
> 
> I might one day continue with this.


End file.
